


How to Train Your Werewolf

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (2010), Teen Wolf (TV), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Additional tags pending, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anchors, BAMF Stiles, Finstock in Charge of Impressionable Youth, Full Shift Werewolves, Hunters, Lots of Sheep, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Protect the Sheep at All Costs, Sheep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Beacon. </p><p>It’s twelve days north of hapless, and a few degrees south of humid with an inexplicable wind chill. The weather patterns are, at best, spotty and at worst completely indecipherable to anyone without a tin hat. It’s located solidly on the meridian of mediocrity. </p><p>I never expected to see eyes so green, or to be willing to kill for them. </p><p>- </p><p>The How to Train Your Dragon AU you never knew you wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beacon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arewebrutalhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arewebrutalhearts/gifts), [fairyotto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyotto/gifts), [KyraDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyraDragon/gifts).



> Originally texted as a concept to Kyra and fervently demanded afterward. 
> 
> This all started because I wanted forbidden romance schmoop, and also happen to be madly in love with How to Train Your Dragon. Hearts, Val, and I spent a good portion of the evening mainlining the movie and shrieking about how perfect the two universes are for smashing together in a shameless gay werewolf lovefest.
> 
> So, uh, this will most certainly be that. 
> 
> We just happen to have snuck a bit of plot in there. 
> 
> And sheep.
> 
> So many sheep.

 

            _This is Beacon._

 

_It’s twelve days north of hapless, and a few degrees south of humid with an inexplicable wind chill. The weather patterns are, at best, spotty and at worst completely indecipherable to anyone without a tin hat. It’s located solidly on the meridian of mediocrity._

 

_My village. In a word, sturdy. In two, bull-headed. And in three, well, there are probably a few vulgarities we could throw in there. Most folks around here aren’t that devoted to descriptors beyond  'strong' and 'tall'. You might say I’m...a little out of place._

 

_You’ll notice, with a quick glance around, that every single building is new, even though we’ve been settled here for seven generations. You’ll also notice that the sheep are particularly skittish. Well, as much as you can notice that sort of thing about sheep._

 

_Outside of the textile business, we have fishing, hunting, and an unbelievable view of the sunset. The only problems are the pests. You see, most places have mice, mosquitoes, maybe a few larger than average spiders._

 

_We have..._

 

* * *

          

 

            “Wolves!"

 

            A slim, brown-haired boy slams the door shut, throwing his full weight against the boards and pressing to keep the great, slavering beast outside, where it stands a slightly lesser chance of sinking its teeth into his pale, bony hide.

 

            There’s a harsh thud, an answering pressure on the other side. “Go away, go away, oh shit please go away. He squeezes his eyes shut, envisioning a clear doorstep once again. There is a howl in the distance, and the pressure quickly disappears.

 

            He waits one count, then two, before hurling himself out and into the fray, weaving in and out of the shouting, heavily-armed masses on the way to his destination.

 

            _Most people would leave. Not us._

 

_We’re those stand your ground types that would sooner start a war than concede a square inch of space to a group of flea-bitten canines. Of course, as you can see, it’s not exactly doing us any favors._

 

_They say it runs in the blood, but I’m not so sure._

 

            At a larger square, he ducks down behind a cartwheel, waiting for another dapple-coated wolf to run past before continuing on. This is getting to be a routine, which is disturbing in its own right. He watches another wolf lunge in and haul off a sickly member of the flock and winces.

 

            This is not going to look good on the ledger.

 

 _My name is Stiles. Well, my nickname, anyway. My given name is an unusual_ _amalgamation of symbols and zhh noises that the average human being can’t quite approximate._

 __  
_ _ _Where my mother comes from, people believe that a hideous name will frighten off_ _gnomes and trolls. Or...at least that’s what my father tells me._

 

_I don’t think anyone else here has too much to worry about from gnomes and trolls._

 

A burly man is hurled from seemingly nowhere, barreling into him with a great deal more force than is strictly necessary to flatten a person of his stature. The shriek he lets out on impact is not as manly as he might have hoped.

 

 "Augh! ...Mornin'!" The man rolls quickly to his feet, picks the boy up and dusts him off. It’s just another part of the well-played out scenario.

 

Well, no--he _himself_ isn’t. Or most of them probably wish he wasn’t.

 

As he continues on, there are myriad cries of, “What are you doing out?!"

 

“Get inside!"

 

Even the occasional, “Oh, goodness, we’re all doomed!"

 

That’s neighborly love for you.

 

Nearly there, he picks up the pace, the slight eager smile on his face suddenly dashed as a firm hand grasps his arm. Well, at least it’s not a set of teeth.

 

“Stiles?" A pair of disapproving brown eyes sweep the milling chaos around them, as if one of the combatants in the immediate area is responsible for unleashing him upon the world. “What is he doing out--"

 

He looks him up and down, “What are you doing out _again?_ Get inside!” 

 

At the sound of a harsh, baying howl, he turns away, staring into the deeper darkness, challenging whatever great beast still remains at the edges.

 

            _He_ doesn’t have to hide behind doors or duck behind cartwheels. He’s entirely capable of taking care of himself. The boy huffs.

 

            _That’s John the Just, our fearless leader. Most people just call him Sheriff. They say that when he was still in diapers, he pulled a wolf’s head right from its shoulders and made a necklace of the teeth._

 

_Do I believe it?_

 

He waits for the charge and meets the weight of the attacking beast with a well-aimed swing of his blackjack, turning its own momentum into a crushing blow that sends it yelping and scrabbling back into the darkness.

 

            _Well, he’s never been much of one for jewelry._

 

            “Damn yellow-eyed bastards." He turns to another combatant, another broad-shouldered man more worthy of his attention. “What have we got this time?"

 

            “A few omegas, none of them berzerk, thank the gods, but Owen thinks he saw a beta getting pretty damn worked up. There are more than last time, and they’re all _pissed,_ as usual. Mag and Glenn are running out of arrows, but I think the Argents should be out in force by now."

 

            “No doubt.” John pauses, “Any sign of an Alpha?"

 

            The man shivers, shakes his head, “None so far."

             
           “Thank the gods."  
 

Stiles stumbles off once more.                
  
           
 “Hoist the torches!"

   
Massive, flaming braziers are lifted on poles overhead, illuminating the ground and minimizing the places available for their sharp-toothed opponents to hide. He blinks against the burning lights and crosses the open plaza, ducking into the familiar warmth of the blacksmith’s workshop.  
 

Duty calls.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, runt! Nice of you to join the party. Thought ya’d been dragged off with the sheep.” The smith’s eyes look especially wild in the glow of the forge, hair mussed and soot black and only serving to enhance the entire madcap package.

 

Just an average day. Night. Morning?

 

Whatever time it was, now. It all seems to blur these days.

 

Stiles pulls on a leather apron and starts organizing the myriad weapons scattered about the forge, pausing for just a moment to strike a bodybuilder’s pose. “If you think _this_ looks appetizing to _anybody,_ you’re just as crazy as people say you are."    

 

“Eh, you’d make a pretty good toothpick. Or a girlfriend. You wanna be a wolf’s girlfriend, Stiles?"

 

He makes a show of gagging, transferring damaged weapons over for repair before setting out new ones for the gathering crowd. “Please," He huffs, “I’m not that sort of girl."

  
            “I don’t know about that," The man grins, flashing disturbingly white teeth, “I think you’re about that age where kids start getting desperate, aren’t ya? A little bait and tackle. A little me-time mambo."

 

“Your analogies are getting _so much worse_. Also, I already did that today. Twice."

 

“Ha! Bulk up that arm, kid! Maybe one day they’ll let ya touch a sword!"

 

 _The nutcase with the attitude and the abnormal interest in my sex life is Finstock. Don’t let_ _the jackass persona fool you. He’s been looking out for me since I was little. Well...littler._

 

“Yeah. Maybe."

 

* * *

 

 

            “We move to the lower defenses." John barks, “We’ll counter-attack with the catapults while the Argents provide targeted fire. Let everyone know."

 

            A group of armed men rush past, guarding others who are now actively carrying the surviving sheep to safety. John takes up the rear as another wolf bays in the distance, a chorus of its fellows joining in.

 

            An omega runs across their path, knocking down a brazier, and there’s another building up in flames.

 

            “Get that fire out! You two, secure the oil barrels. Damn it, this isn’t our night." 

 

            _Old village. Lots and lots of new buildings._

 

            Throughout the village, other voices exclaim, “Fire! Fire!"

 

            As the mighty sheep bearers continue on their path, a fire brigade rushes in, pulling a great wooden cask on wheels. Each of them fills a bucket with water to douse the flames.

 

            _Here we have the actual well-adjusted teenagers of Beacon. You know, the ones who might actually grow up to_ do _something with their lives?_

 

_My best friend, Scott…_

 

The first of the teenagers has wild, dark hair and a determined look on his face. He’s giving the job his all, targeting problem areas as they occur to him. As he goes to refill the bucket, he shouts words of encouragement to the others.

 

_Danny…_

 

The next in line is a tall, muscular boy with a confident smile and dimples that could probably kill with the right setup. He’s efficient at the job, and is quick to reign in the argument brewing between the two after him.

 

_The twins, Allison and Jackson…_

 

The pair in question, both startlingly attractive brunettes, bicker back and forth without end as they go about emptying their buckets into the fire. Allison moves as if to strike her brother upside the head, and Jackson ducks.

 

_And…_

 

The last in the brigade manages to pop him in her place before storming gracefully forward and dousing more of the flames. She tosses brilliant red hair over her shoulder, the hue of it seeming to _dance_ in the roaring firelight, and narrows her gaze at the pair.

 

            She delivers a series of scathing words, and Allison laughs as Jackson cringes.

 

            Stiles sighs, smiling dopily as he watches from the smithy’s window.

 

            _Lydia._

With the apparently fearless redhead in the lead, the youths regroup and saunter by.

 

            _Their job is so much cooler than mine._

 

            Stiles opens his mouth to, undoubtedly, make a fool of himself, but a swift tug at the back of his collar simultaneously chokes the silly right out of him and removes him from their line of sight.

 

            “Oh, come _on._ Let me out, please. I have to make my mark."

 

            “Oh, you’ve made plenty of marks. Traumatized plenty of sheep, too."

 

            “Just two minutes, that’s all I need. I’ll kill a wolf. My life will become instantly better. I might even have sex with something not attached to my body."

 

            Finstock glances out the window as another villager rushes by, carrying a sheep on his shoulders.

 

“What? I-- ** _no_**! _Gods,_ no!"

 

            Finstock cackles, going back to his metalwork. “You can’t lift a hammer, you can’t swing an axe, can’t even throw one of these bad bitches.” He hefts a bola, gives it a whirl, and nearly catches Stiles in the head.

            The boy bends back just in time.

 

He takes the weapon from his master’s outstretched palm and gives it an experimental swing.  

 

            “Okay, all right. _Fine,_ but…"

 

            The bola flies back and takes out a bystander waiting at the counter. Stiles hoists himself up to get a better look and--yep--the man is out cold.

 

“You were saying?"

 

“Practice swing?"

 

“Stiles, if you really want to get out there and kick some wolfy ass, you need to stop all…," He gestures in his general direction, “This.”        

 

“You just gestured to all of me!"

 

 _"There_ ya go."

  
“Not _really_ , considering I’m still _here_ , unarmed and more than a little _useless._ "

 

Finstock clucks his tongue and tosses him a sword. “There, now you’re armed. And I wouldn’t say you’re useless. Get sharpening."

 

Stiles bites his tongue, pressing the sword to the grindstone as he fantasizes.

 

_One day, I’ll get out there. Because taking down a wolf is everything around here. Unless it’s berserk, taking down an omega shouldn’t be that hard. It’s sure to get me noticed, at least._

 

 _A beta, now that’s a target to aim for. It’d definitely get me a girlfriend. Taking down a beta,_ especially _one that’s gone berserk._

 

_I’d finally have a place, then._

 

* * *

 

 

            At the top of the watch tower, the Sheriff watches as something bigger, something massive stirs in the forest. They’ve secured the sheep, and teams are handling the scattered groups of wolves prowling the streets. The hunters are optimistic about their catch, as if their favorite hunting grounds have finally come to them. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. The howling is a bizarre chorus, one he thinks he’ll never get used to.

 

            Too mournful, and watered down with too much blood.

 

            He hates the sound almost as much as he hates the wide, sure stretch of Gerard Argent’s lips and teeth. His people are at risk, and he’s partnered up with a group of fear-baiting sports hunters to protect what he can and make up for what he can’t.

 

            “Concentrate your fire along the tree line!"

 

            The boulders strike along the forest’s edge, shaking the ground, and the trees themselves are most certainly shifting, now. That greater, rumbling howl echoes again, and something black and looming--almost a shadow--slinks from the underbrush.

 

            And then there’s far more pressing matters to be dealt with.

 

            Like the angry beta lunging for his face. How she made it up the tower without anyone noticing, he’ll never guess. He supposes she’s a brave girl, and grapples with her forcefully.

 

            All around them, the chorus swells.

 

            Everything is hunger. Everything is anger.

 

            Down at the blacksmith’s shop, the sound rings clear.

 

* * *

 

 

            Stiles looks up from his work, shivering at the sound as it echoes through the village, louder than before. Louder than ever. He bites his lip.

 

            _But the ultimate prize is the one that no one has ever seen._

           

“It’s the Alpha! Look out!" The cry booms across the village as the rumbling growl seems to seep into every hut and stone. The villagers are in a state of chaos, some running for a defensible ground, and others stubbornly refusing to move. As the wolves do, they cry out for one another, shouting back and forth.

 

            _This thing never steals food, never shows itself, and...never misses._

 

Another earth-rattling howl echoes through the village, answered faithfully.

 

_No one here has ever killed an Alpha. That’s why I’m going to be the first._

 

Finstock lays his hammer down and picks up a wicked-looking axe, hefting it with a sharp laugh, “Man the fort, Stiles. I think I’ll go bust a few heads."

 

He pauses, turning on his way out to glare at the boy, “Stay put. Right there. Keep that pert little butt on the bench. You know what I mean."

 

“You think my butt is cute?"

 

“I think it’ll look cuter attached to the rest of you. So keep it glued, kid." With that, he charges out yelling,  "Come at me, ya mongrel bastards! Not _you,_ Greenberg!"

 

Stiles waits a moment, _or three_ , before a smirk slowly steals across his face. “Tonight…"

 

            A single, wailing howl follows the others from surprisingly nearby.

 

            His lips take a worried turn, and he glances at the crossbow and quiver hanging on the peg by the door. It sounds... _hurt_.

  
           “Aw, damn." He mutters.

           

          Always with the bleeding heart.

 


	2. Howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a young man tries, and fails, to prove himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is later than I'd promised. 
> 
> There was a whole mess of RL shenanigans that kept us all from cooing about teen wolf angst and dragon fluff. 
> 
> See if you can spot the crossed references.

               Stiles huffs out a long breath, ducking and weaving between clustered warriors, ears singed with the shouting, clanging, zinging din of war in the village. It is, for lack of a better word, mayhem. He coughs through the thick air, ignoring the sting in his eyes, and runs as fast as his legs can carry him towards where the mournful howling _must_ have come from.

  
               ‘I’ll capture it," He thinks, “It’s already wounded. All I have to do is--"

                
                He doesn’t _know_ what he’ll do, really. There’s a fifty percent chance that he’ll hit the mark with the crossbow he’d snatched from the peg, and another fifty percent chance that he’ll take out someone’s eye. Possibly his own.

                
               “Stiles? Where are you going?!"

 

               “Come back here!"

 

               “I know. Be right back!" He calls, vaulting over a straggling sheep with a soft, ‘ooph' and continuing on with little more than a, “Somebody wanna get that?!"

 

               The roaring carries on behind him as he continues toward a section of the village isolated from the struggle and violence. A more sensible youth would have known better.

 

               Stiles is not a more sensible youth.

 

-x-

 

               The she-wolf puts up a fierce and _nasty_ fight. John admits, with some grim amusement, that she truly is a formidable lady, pulling vulnerable flesh from the reach of her snapping maw.

 

               “Off you get!" He grunts, planting his feet square against her rib cage and levering her off with a forceful kick. She sprawls backward, impacting the stone barrier with a high, keening yelp. She eyes him almost accusingly before her ears pick up at another, waivering howl--injured and plaintive.

 

               A snarl escapes her as John takes a measured step closer, and she’s darting away once more, into the darkness.

 

               Toward the sound.

 

-x-

 

               Stiles pads to a halt just before the cliff’s edge wall, overlooking the dark churning pressure of the sea and sky. The torch light is only a faint suggestion here, unlike the area where the battle has concentrated. The effect is almost calming as he approaches the source of the plaintive calls.

 

               The sounds have reduced themselves to broken, pitiful whimpers and high-pitched whining, like a common dog begging for help. Before he can stop himself, Stiles sends up a brief prayer that he may, for once, be _able_ to.

 

               The wolf, hiding in the shadows of the stairway, just beyond a shallow pool of moonlight, appears almost delicate. It is thin, but not underweight, with a delicate fineness to its features. Its coat is a brown near light enough to be considered blonde, the fur matted along his left flank where he has apparently taken an arrow.

 

               The wound--thank the heavens--does not look grievous, but Stiles could be horribly wrong. He has been before. The sensation is hollow and thick in his chest. He takes a step closer, one hand outstretched as if placating some spooked, domesticated beast…

 

               But the wolf does not growl.

 

               Bright golden eyes look at him hopefully, seemingly ignorant of exactly what kind of damage Stiles could do if he were half as competent as the rest of his neighbors. Scott wouldn’t bat an eye at putting the wolf out of its misery.

 

               Lydia would make quick work of claiming a pretty new pelt for herself.

 

               But Stiles is taking slow, measured steps closer, shushing and humming and clicking his tongue as if soothing a startled pet. Eventually, he comes to a stop just beside the wolf, still looking up at him as if waiting for _something_ from him.

 

               Some acknowledgement or information.

 

               There’s an _intelligence_ there.

 

               Stiles reaches out, his fingertips brushing the arrow. “I, uh...have to take it out. You’re not gonna bite me, are you?"

 

               The animal huffs, an indignant sound, like Stiles is a particularly slow child underestimating his incalculable self-control. Or, perhaps, like Stiles just isn’t worth biting into. Too stringy. Too lanky. Too abnormal.

 

               Ha. Not even a decent snack.

 

               “No, you wouldn’t bite me." He chuckles to himself, reaching out to take a proper hold on the arrow’s shaft, when he hears the snarling. He looks back over his shoulder to find another, lighter wolf with saliva dripping from her fangs, her stance coiled and ready to tear him to pieces.  “...But _you_ might."

 

               She lunges, and he manages to roll out of the way, stumbling up and away as he readies bolt and bow. The she-wolf narrows her eyes at him, righting herself and resuming the low, full-bellied growl. Neither moves.

 

               Everything is still and quiet, but for the sound of chaos in the distance and the occasional keening whine coming from her downed packmate. She’s worried. He can respect that, but he’s not about to get torn into easily digestible pieces and prove everyone _right._

 

               That just sucks.

 

               Instead, he sights her, focusing his aim as best he can remember. People don’t often let him touch projectile weapons, but he digs deep and finds something resembling confidence curled about a jerking urge to unleash a hysterical laugh.

 

               He’s going to get his wish.

 

               The she-wolf tenses again, adopts a different posture, and she, too, reminds him of a domestic animal. For a moment, he actually believes she’s deferring to him when he _feels_ an even deeper growl vibrating up from his feet, unsettling the air and stone around them.

 

               “Mother _fuck_." Stiles glances back over his shoulder to see a large, black _something_ with _glowing red eyes_ watching him intently. He’s tempted to bare his throat the same way the she-wolf has, but he has no doubt it will be ripped out.

 

               “Hoooly gods please don’t eat me."

 

                With a sinking realization that the monstrous thing--the _Alpha--_ probably doesn’t speak his language, he takes a half-step back, shifting his weight.

 

               An experienced viking would realize that moving anywhere other than _away_ from the betas was a misstep at best. For a scrawny, untrainable thing like Stiles, it was likely suicide.

 

               The beast lunges, and Stiles feels the need to scream, to run, to be back under his warm blankets where he belongs swelling up from his belly and suffusing his every extremity. He feels panic in the roots of his teeth, and then--

 

               He’s firing.

    
    The bolt flies true, burying itself firmly in the meat of a black-furred shoulder. The Alpha roars, a deafening sound that rattles the battlements and the earth, but instead of continuing its pursuit, it seems to panic.

 

               Wicked, knife-length claws scrabble at the wound, but find no purchase.

 

               In the span of moments, it darts away, back into the blackness beyond the torchlight, back towards the forest. It crashes through an abandoned rack of weapons, tangling itself with lengths of netting, and continues on into the night.

 

               “That’s it? One shot?” He asks of no one, and no one answers.

 

                Behind him, the she-wolf seems to have become much less amenable. The soft, threatening growling has resumed, and he realizes that he is by no means out of the woods. He chokes out a high, crackling laugh. “Everyone’s a critic."

 

               He doesn’t give her time to lunge before he’s taking off towards the plaza once more, a snapping, angry beta hot on his heels.

 

               This really isn’t his night.

 

-x-

 

               John leaves the blacksmith’s shop in a flurry of swearing and panic. Finstock swore he’d told the boy to stay put, but such methods had never seemed to work before. Why would they now?

 

               “Damn it all." He glances around, looking from face to face, “Has anyone seen Stiles?!"

 

               Within seconds, the object of his ire is darting into the square with the same she-wolf nipping at his ankles, ignoring all others in her pursuit. She’s on the urge of going completely berserk, saliva flying everywhere as she pursues the boy with single-minded rage.

 

               Villagers scatter as Stiles jumps and turns, avoiding a lunge that would have severed a hamstring, if it hadn’t taken his leg. The beast slams into walls and installations with no prejudice, doing significant damage despite her lithe stature.

 

               Stiles ducks, hiding behind the last standing brazier, arguably the only shelter within sight, and she slams into that, as well. In a moment of childish idiocy, the boy peers around the edge to catch sight of the wolf, giving her a chance to sneak around to pin him against the pillar.

 

               He turns back and swallows loudly, closing his eyes in preparation for a final blow and eternal mockery in death when the village chief lunges between them, grabbing hold of the beast and wrestling her to the ground.

 

               He is unbothered by the flash of claws and catching teeth, instead delivering a series of swift blows about the face and throat, leaving her whimpering and limp. He stands, barely winded by the close combat, and demands that a few unoccupied men put her with the other captured beasts.

 

               Stiles hadn’t been aware they had captured any.

 

               He bites his lip, shrinking under the harsh and disbelieving gaze.

 

_Oh, and there’s one more thing you need to know…_

 

               The impacted pillar collapses, sending the great iron basket once held aloft crashing to the ground. It bounces down the hill, cutting a tidy swath of destruction as it goes.

 

                “...Sorry, dad."

 

               The villagers gather closer, apparently eager for the inevitable tearing of Stiles’ brand new one. They murmur amongst themselves, obviously prepared for the chewing out of the century. Stiles doesn’t bother hoping for mercy.

 

               Instead, he blurts, “Okay, but I hit an Alpha."

 

               John grabs him by the collar, hoisting him up and hauling him away, flushed with embarrassment and anger. No doubt wondering what he’d done to anger the gods, that they would give him such a useless heir.

 

               “It’s not _like_ the last few times, Dad. I mean I really, actually hit it! You guys were busy and I heard--well, I heard this howl. Not like the others. One of them--a beta--it was hurt. So I went to see, and it let me so _close,_ Dad, but then--that other one--and then the _Alpha_. I nailed it in the shoulder with one of the Argent’s arrows, but it took off into the woods. If we can get a search party to--"

 

                “ _STOP_! Just...stop." He releases Stiles, and everything is silent. “Every time you step outside, disaster follows. Like you have it on a _leash_ , Stiles. Can you not see that I have bigger problems? With the raids, we’re low on livestock and supplies, and _fantasies_ won’t feed the hungry!"

 

               Stiles glances around, meeting countless pairs of eyes, all judging, except for Scott, who shrugs his shoulders as if to say, “He has a point."

 

               “Between me and you, some people could do with a little less feeding, don’t ya think?"

 

               A few indignant shouts rise from the crowd, while others shift self-consciously.

 

               “This isn’t a joke, Stiles! Why can’t you follow simple directions? Why do you feel the need to _lie_ to me?!"

 

               “That depends on how you define lying."

 

               “Well, _I_ define it as not telling the truth. How do _you_ define it?"

 

               "..Reclining your body in a horizontal position?" 

 

               “Stiles--"

 

               “Dad, you don’t understand. You don’t understand what it’s _like_ to be--"

 

               “Completely useless?"

 

               Stiles stops short, throat tightening as if he’s swallowed something sharp and cold. He looks around again, catching more than a few nods of firm agreement. He looks back to his father who, for a brief moment, seems sorry, but the look is fleeting.  


               “Get back to the house.” He turns to Finstock, “Make sure he gets there. I have his mess to clean up."

 

               With that, he heads in the opposite direction, not another word to his son. Stiles watches him go before allowing Finstock to place a warm, calloused hand on his shoulder and lead him past the others.

 

               “Quite the performance, Stiles. I’ve never seen anyone mess up that badly. That helped!" Jackson laughs.

 

               “Thanks. I was trying, so…" He pulls his shoulders in, avoiding Lydia’s glare as he heads for the house atop the hill. Scott shoots his back a sympathetic look, but does not move to follow. Allison is smiling at him, congratulating him, and he can’t break away now.

 

               It’s not like this was the first time.

 

               Stiles would get over it.

 

-x-

 

               “I really did hit one." Stiles mumbles, examining the doorstep with low-slung shoulders.

 

               “Sure, kiddo."

 

               “He never listens."

  
               “Well, it runs in the family."

 

               Stiles lets out a harsh bark of laughter before continuing, “And when he does, it’s always with this...disappointed scowl. Like someone replaced the meat on his sandwich with celery sticks."

 

               “You do _that_ , too!"

 

               “He needs to watch what he eats! He needs...he just needs to be careful…"

 

               “I’ve heard that before."

 

               “Finstock, he looks at me like he’d--like he’d take me back. Like he just wants to trade me in for someone like Jackson or Danny."

 

               “They _are_ a lot to compete with. Ha, if I still had muscles like those boys! I did once, ya know?"

 

               “No. I don’t know. I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone. Sarcasm is literally my only defense. When I try to gain muscle, I screw it up. I can never…"

 

               “You’re thinking about this all wrong. It’s not what you look like. It’s what’s _inside_ that he can’t stand."

 

               “Thanks for that."

 

               Finstock reaches a hand for him, as if he wants to pull him in for a hug or a ruffle of his soft, messy hair. Stiles shakes his head, sighs hopelessly as he opens the door. “I just want to be one of you guys."

 

               He turns and disappears through the door…

 

               And straight out the back door, darting into the dark of the forest, determined.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if there are and errant 'E's, missing quotations, rogue bits of code, etc.
> 
> Apparently I did not notice that DivX codec now comes with an ASSLOAD OF MALWARE. 
> 
> I'm hoping the process I'm running now fixes it.


	3. Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to post this. 
> 
> The writing team has been off for summer vacation. I just want everyone to know that I've no intention of abandoning this fic. You're safe. :)

The great hall is the fulcrum of the village--the people of Beacon gather beneath her vaulted arches in times of blizzard and heavy rain, huddling close with livestock and neighbor alike to fend off bitter cold and numbing fear.

 

The ceilings are high, and the walls decorated with banners in a range of colors, but the fabric does little to muffle the din of shouting, angry voices, the confusion of protest. John stands at the head of the table, surrounded by his people, and bellows for attention.

 

As always, it is quickly and duly given.

  


“This has been going on for long enough. For years, we’ve fought petty battles and haven’t made a dent. This is the only way we’ll be rid of them.”

 

“There has to be another way!” One man cries.

  


“They can’t keep it up forever!” Another adds.

  


Kate Argent stands a short way off, among her family members, all standing at perfect attention, shoulders squared back and weapons proudly displayed. She sneers, “You’d be surprised.”

  


John shakes his head, “If we find their den and destroy it, the wolves will leave. They’ll find another home, far from here. One more search before the frosts set in.”

  


“The search parties never return!”

  


“We’re warriors, it’s an occupational hazard. Now, who’s with me?” He plants his hands firmly on his hips, glancing around at the villagers assembled within their treasured hall, and feels disappointed. None make any move to join him but the Argents, and they are powerful, but numbered. Overzealous. Bloodthirsty at best.

  


There is quiet in the hall which only moments before rang with the sounds of raised voices. There is quiet, and there is shame, fear.

  


Someone mumbles, “Maybe...next season…?”

  


John bites his cheek for a moment, drilling a hole into the wood of the table with the sharpness of his gaze alone, “All right,” He barks, “Those who stay will help look after Stiles.”

  


Suddenly, the villagers can’t volunteer fast enough. A pit of embarrassment and no small amount of black, self-deprecating humor opens in his gut. If Stiles only knew how good he was at motivating people. John only wished it weren’t this way.

  


He says, “That’s more like it.”

  


The hall empties quickly as the villagers, Argents included, leave to pack their supplies and ready the transports. Finstock remains behind.

 

“I’ll have to pack my good undies. Maybe the ones with the little cupcakes on ‘em.”

  


“No,” John snorts, “I need you to stay and train some new recruits.”

 

“Oh, perfect. While I’m busy, Stiles can man the shop. Molten steel, sharp razor blades, plenty of things to trip over, and _shitloads_ of free time. What could possibly go wrong?”

  


John sighs and leans his hip against the old, solid wood of the banquet table. He rubs at his temple as if the great headache that is his genetic issue will suddenly resolve itself with a little more pressure. “What am I going to do with him, Bobby?”

  


Finstock brightens for a moment, as if he’s had a thought, but then shrugs.

  


“What?”

  


“Ah, it’s nothing.”

  


“It’s never nothing.”

  


“Just a little thought is all. I can child-lock the forge.”

  


“Bobby.”

  


Finstock heaves a sigh, “Put him in training with the others.”

  


“No, I’m serious.”

  


“So am I.”

  


“He’d be killed before you let the first wolf out of the cage.”

  


“You can’t know that for sure.”

  


“Oh, I think I can.”

  


“At least give the kid a chance.”

  


“He’s been given nothing _but_ chances! You know what he’s like. From the time he could crawl he’s been...different. He doesn’t listen.”

  


“He listens _differently._ ”

  


“He has the attention span of a sparrow, with half the sense. I take him fishing and he goes hunting for trolls.”

  


“Trolls exist! They steal your socks.” He pauses, rasping darkly, “Your balls, too, if you’re not careful.”

 

John shakes his head as if to clear the image, “When I was a boy…”

  


“Ah, here we go--”

  


“My father told me to drive my fist as hard as I could into the trunk of a rowan tree, over and over again, without stopping. Just keep hitting the bark, let it split the skin, let the splinters in between my bones. I thought it was crazy, but I didn't question him. And you know what happened?”

  


“You hurt your hand.”

  


“I felled the tree,” He gestures to the table before them, “It taught me what a warrior could _do,_ Bobby. We can crush mountains, level forests, bring the ocean to its knees! Even as a boy, I knew what I was, and what I had to become.”

  


He pauses, looks over the banners, the shields and arms hanging from the walls, feels the sheer force of _legacy_ that can be felt in every pore of their surroundings, and realizes that not a drop of this will ever remain once he leaves.

  


“Stiles...is not that boy.”

  


Finstock’s answering silence is heavy before he finds the words to respond, “You can’t stop him, John. You can only prepare him. Look, I know it seems hopeless, but the truth is, you won’t always be around to protect him. He lives with that every day, and it doesn’t do a thing but drive him to keep at it. He’ll get out there again. He’s probably out there _now_.”

  


He pauses for a moment as John seems to absorb these words. Frustration seeps back into the line of his shoulders, the tense motion of his fingers a tell-tale sign in the father as it is in the son. Always frustration, always anger.

  


He mutters, “And what is it you last said to him?”

  
  


-x-

  


If there was ever an occupation for Stiles’ eager hands, it was filling the pages of his notebook. (Well--one which could be discussed in polite company, at least.) If you were to ask anyone, it was best to keep those idle fingers busy, lest they enmesh themselves in something far more destructive than a half-cocked illustration of some mechanism or fantastic beast.

  


The pages, to Stiles, are a solace, an occupation that will never sour or cease to amuse him. People may taunt and tease him, but the simple, crisp marks he can make on paper are precious--each and every one. They belong to him, endlessly constructive, always building and postulating on something new, something _magnificent,_ something _**worthy.** _ If he only had half the talent, half the _resources_ to...well…

  


He doesn’t know what he’d do.

  


Probably something heinously ill-planned and all together disastrous.

  


Stiles huffs a breath, thumbing at the edge of the page, the notebook open to a roughly-drawn map of the area, covered in hastily-scratched ‘x’ marks. He looks up from the diagram and peeks over a gorge expectantly.

  


He finds exactly nothing and adds another mark to the page before scratching out the entire map in a moment of pure frustration. He snaps the book closed and pockets it, kicks up a bit of dirt and loose rocks. “Ugh, the gods hate me. Some people lose a knife or a mug. No, not me, no sir. _I_ manage to lose an _Alpha_. What even--?”

  


He continues, striking a low-hanging branch, which snaps back and hits him right in the face. With a muffled curse, he rubs at the shiny new sore spot and lets his eyes follow the path. Before him, a tree has been snapped in half, not quite cleanly, but clearly in one fell swoop.

  


Beyond that, there is a trench of upturned earth, a drag mark, as if something heavy charged headfirst and met with a sudden stop. There are deep gouges in the bark of the tree, as if ripped open by...by a set of dagger-sharp claws.

With a low, shuddering breath, he moves forward, following the path of destruction to a downed, black-furred Alpha, tangled in netting and sprawled upon the earth. Everything about the pose suggests suffering and entrapment.

  


The beast is dead. He’s finally done it. He’s _finally_ killed a wolf. Stiles beams as he stumbles closer, eager to examine his catch. “Oh, wow. I did it. I _did_ it. This fixes everything. I’m _not_ useless. I killed a fucking _Alpha_. Yes!”

  


In a moment of sheer joy, he strikes a victory pose, planting a foot on a broad, dark shoulder. “I have brought down this mighty beast!”

  


There is a rumbling beneath his boot, deep and reverberating, and Stiles springs back, eyes wide and pulse racing. All right, not as dead as he thought. Nowhere _near_ as dead as he thought. Decidedly un-killed, at least, for now.

  


He bites his lip harshly, hoping for some control over his own raging nerves, and turns his blade against the creature. Inching forward, he prowls the line of the wolf’s prone form, searching for a point of weakness. It’s curled over, offering some protection for the softness of the belly, but there are plenty of places for Stiles to slide the dagger up and in.

Plenty of places for a cold blade to make its home.

  


As he reaches the head, he realizes that deep red eyes are staring at him, unblinking, raw and open. It expects nothing of him, he thinks. It would kill him without mercy, if the roles were reversed. He steadies his hand, and tries to look away.

  


It doesn’t work. He’s drawn back to those eyes, such a deep, unblemished red, fixed unwaveringly on him. The Alpha is well and truly tangled up, from what he can see, though it’s surprising that the beast hasn’t made some progress against his binds. Perhaps the bolt did more damage than Stiles had first thought.

  


It won’t be able to defend itself.

  


Stiles makes a jabbing motion with the dagger, puffing up his chest and throwing his shoulders back. It takes very little time for him to feel _completely_ ridiculous, but he commits to it. “I’m going to kill you, monster. I’m gonna cut off your head and present it to my father. I’ll--I’ll wear your teeth around my neck.” He pauses, hands tightening at the hilt, “I’m a _**warrior** _!”

  


He raises the blade, “I’m a warrior.”

  


The Alpha’s breathing is labored. Stiles can hear it with his eyes closed--hadn’t even realized he'd closed his eyes--and cracks one open, waivering. One brilliant red eye holds the stare, the other side of his muzzle--the rest of his _face--_ buried hopelessly against the dirt.

  


As if that might help the pain.

  


As if it matters.

  


Stiles has never seen such a shade in all of his years, not once, not even in the brilliant, fire-lit hues of Lydia’s hair. Not in his most vivid and colorful dreams. Once the deed is done, he’ll never see it again.

  


Again, Stiles adjusts his grip on the weapon’s hilt, sets himself up again, “I’m a _warrior._ ”

  


The wolf shudders, finally, and lowers its head, resigned to die tangled up in the dirt at the hands of...what _is_ he, really?

  


Stiles tries to follow through, tries _so hard_ to _make_ himself deliver the killing blow. “...I’m...completely pathetic.” He drops his arms, lets them dangle limply at his sides as he looks the creature up and down, taking in the chafing wounds healing and reopening where dark fur is parted by coiled rope.

  


“...I did this.”

  


He turns to leave. He makes it a few steps before he pauses and glances back at the prone form, chest heaving. He grumbles, “I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot.” He checks his surroundings, assuring himself that none of the others are about to find him out, to punish him for what he’s about to do.

  


Once he’s certain, he hurries back and sets the edge of the blade by a thick length of the netting. With an earthy, creaking whine and a snap, the material gives way. The Alpha’s eye shoots open. Stiles can _feel_ more than see the creature watching, breath shallow, eager, studying his every move and waiting for the opportunity to react.

  


He is nervous, obviously in immediate danger, but his movements are quick and his hands are steady. He was nowhere near this confident when the beast was tightly bound with a blade pointed between its ribs.

 

As the last rope falls free, the Alpha lunges forward, pinning him down and grazing sharp, slick teeth against the vulnerable flesh of his collarbone. For a moment, Stiles is certain that this is the end. He can’t move, can’t think. He isn’t entirely certain that he’s _breathing._

  


The wolf’s breath ruffles his hair, gathers damply at the join of neck and shoulder. The boy trembles between muscular, clawed forelegs. He opens his eyes to meet that unmistakably predatory gaze, boring into him.

  


For a moment, maintaining constant eye contact, the beast lowers its head and sniffs at his shoulder, just above his heart. With a great breath out, the impulse seems satisfied, and it lifts its gaze. They stare at one another, face to face, and for a moment, Stiles thinks he’s about to have his head bitten off.

  


The beast draws back, heaves in a great breath, and unleashes a bellowing roar before turning about and thundering into the brush, crashing against trees and scrabbling at the ground in its mad dash to escape.

  


Heart racing, Stiles staggers to his feet and watches the hulking form vanish some distance away.

  


“Anywhere but here, huh?” He breathes, and then he collapses to his knees once more, curling into the dark and the empty.

  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's hoping you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Please let us know what you thought.
> 
> Drop me a line over on tumblr, [here.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/)


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